Shattering Glass
by BonesOfBirdWings
Summary: Possession wasn't as easy as the Dragon had made it out to be, and now Merlin must cope with the damage left in Sigan's wake. No pairings. Spoilers through 2x01.
1. Prologue

Merlin could faintly feel that his body was where he had left it, slumped on the cobblestones by the prince that he _thought hoped prayed_ was not dead, but simply unconscious. It was a strange feeling, knowing that you were physically stationary, but writhing mentally as malevolent fingers clawed at your consciousness. Possession wasn't as easy as the Dragon had made it out to be, Merlin thought disconnectedly.

Sigan had obviously done this before, or at least read more about it than Merlin had, as he mercilessly attacked Merlin at his weakest points, fighting desperately to break Merlin's mind before the magic twisted around his soul and sealed it back into the stone. Images were thrown up into a stunned Merlin's mind, his mother with painful sores covering her body, Gaius slumped by the stone altar, Arthur, motionless and barely breathing.

Merlin, in turn, scratched viciously at Sigan, but all he received for his troubles were fleeting images of a majestic, dark-haired man and a few syllables of various spells. He could feel Sigan's dark humor at his attempts he continued to pummel Merlin with his worst memories.

Merlin's thoughts began to be disjointed, and he fancied that his mind was becoming tattered, ragged gashes torn in the fabric of his memories. He grasped for his magic and it came, a bright shimmering gold, but it wavered precariously as his mind quavered under Sigan's onslaught. Desperate, Merlin _threw_ it at Sigan, thinking of flames and shards of ice and soul-deep _pain_, willing Sigan to retreat, to succumb to the threads of magic that pulled him towards his crystal.

As the magic pierced Sigan's consciousness, Sigan screamed, his voice filled with anger, pain, and denial as Merlin's magic wormed its way through Sigan's memories to the center of his soul. Merlin was deluged with a cascade of unfamiliar images and information. He couldn't distinguish any individual memory, since they blurred together as Merlin's magic drew closer to the center of Sigan's consciousness.

Realizing his imminent return to the stone, Sigan blindly lashed out at Merlin's mind, desperately carving out deep gouges in his consciousness. Merlin's magic wavered, but Merlin forced it onwards, ignoring both Sigan's memories and the increasing disorganization of his own mind.

With a final push, Merlin's magic speared Sigan's soul, and with one last scream Sigan was ripped out of Merlin's mind by the insistent threads of magic which bore him back to his stone.

Merlin floated in a hazy field of memories, his consciousness darting from one to another aimlessly. He was a young boy by the river, showing his best friend the leaves dancing on the wind. He was an old man, looking out with bitterness over the city that he had formed from the bedrock below. He was a young man, crying over the body of his fallen comrade, and he was rejoicing over the destruction of his foes, and he was a crow with broken wings, falling.

_What is my name?_ he thought, blearily. _Cornelius Merlin Emrys Sigan_, his memories whispered back. _Sigan Cornelius Emrys Merlin_.

He danced through the destruction of his mind until black swallowed him and he felt into the abyss, still wondering who he could possibly be.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Exposition chapter, but stick with me, plenty of action and angst to come. If you look at my profile, this is obviously my first fanfic, so yeah, hopefully this is coming out well. Thanks all for reading!**

**I most certainly do not own Merlin.**

Chapter 1

He woke with a gasp, disoriented and panicked. He could feel the thrumming ache of his body and the pounding of his head, a testament to the fact that he wasn't dead. (_Not like when the sword had slipped between his ribs and he had stared into the hard eyes of his back-stabbing brother and felt the stone swallow him up._)He desperately tried to find his bearings, but the assorted jars and books of the workroom looked only vaguely familiar, like the background of a half-forgotten dream.

His body protested vociferously as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, but he had endured much, much worse pains, and the discomfort was a small price to pay for the ability to scan the whole room for attackers. (_A little paranoid, aren't you, Cornelius?_) He scanned the variety of items haphazardly covering the shelves, his desperation growing as memories warred within his mind, confusing him further. (_Mint is good for upset stomachs, Merlin. Come here and… Sage, Sigan! Don't presume to tell me how to do… Merlin, fetch some more rosemary for Morgana…_)

Nothing seemed to make any sense; the world was fragmented and strange. Even the magic that he could feel flowing through his limbs was disjointed and sluggish. Part of him wondered how he knew how to analyze the health of his magic while another felt it was as simple as breathing.

"What happened?" he asked the empty room, noting that his voice was raspy and his throat ached. "How long have I been out?" _What is my name?_ his mind chimed in, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. He would not panic, but would deal with things logically, in their proper order.

First, and most worrisome, the state of his magic. Spying a book on the table, he stretched out a hand to summon it, but as he gathered his magic, a barrage of contradictory impulses assaulted him. He should say the words that danced on the edges of his memory and he should simply will it, because this situation was the same as sending a spear into a boar and saving his wife from an arrow and pulling a rope taut in the marketplace. He clutched his head, overcome by the unconnected, confusing deluge of images.

He attempted, frantically, to recall a time when his magic had malfunctioned like this, but as his cast his mind back, he found that it wasn't encountering a logical, organized path to the correct memory, but simply random fragments of past experiences. (_The griffin bore down on him and… Sigan, you should lie down. You look… Merlin, you idiot! I told you to… Fires burned as he screamed fruitlessly…_)

He fisted his dark hair in his hands, trying to control his heaving breaths. He faintly heard a door open, followed by the pattering of hurried feet. He felt a hand, warm and comforting, rest on his back and it began to move in small circles as the man murmured a string of comforting nonsense. Gradually, the boy's breaths slowed and he relaxed. Slowly, he raised his head to examine his comforter.

The man was old, with white, shoulder-length hair and concerned eyes. The boy swallowed, thickly, as he realized that he couldn't remember the man's name, although the man certainly seemed very friendly with him. Forcing down his feelings of awkwardness, the boy cleared his throat and asked again, "What happened to me?"

The man pursed his lips and his brows furrowed with worry. "Do you not remember, Merlin?"

With a effort, _Merlin_ kept his elation from his face. He had solved one mystery; his name was Merlin! However, he schooled his expression into one of confusion, and shook his head. He had both a faint feeling of surprise at this display of acting and a sharp discontent at the unfamiliarity of this face.

The old man moved to the shelves, pulling down jars of herbs as he spoke. "Well, when Sigan possessed the thief, he animated the gargoyles, which began to ravage the town. At this point, you were still in the dungeons." He cast a sidelong glance at Merlin. "Do you remember that much?"

Merlin automatically nodded, but internally, he was in turmoil. Sigan? He was _also_ someone named Sigan, he thought, although this man called him Merlin, and he didn't remember any of this.

The man continued, blithely unaware of Merlin's internal issues. "I don't know how you got out of the dungeons, but you did, and after a brief consultation with me, you visited the Dragon to learn a spell to trap Sigan back in the stone. It worked, thankfully." He turned to the wooden table, arms laden with an array of herbs and unidentifiable liquids. "I found you, unconscious, next to Arthur." The man raised his head, fixing his eyes, now brimming with warm and affection, on Merlin. "I was worried for you, as your breathing was a little erratic, but it returned to normal within a few hours."

"How -" Merlin croaked, before clearing his throat. "How long was I out?"

The man began arranging his jars on the table in some pattern that spoke of long familiarity and practice. _Physician,_ Merlin's mind whispered, a distracting flow of memories threatening to overwhelm his concentration."You were asleep for several days," the physician said, "probably from magical exhaustion. Arthur is already up and about, although I don't want you to return to your work for at least a couple more days." Misinterpreting Merlin's fleeting expression of confusion, he wryly assured Merlin, "Oh, don't worry! I told Arthur that you escaped the dungeons when your door became unstable from the gargoyles' attack and that a falling rock clipped the side of your head as you hurried outside, knocking you unconscious. I _certainly_ didn't tell him about your magic!"

_Doesn't know about my magic?_ Merlin wondered. _Why…_ (_The sorcerer lays down his head on the block… All magic is evil! It must be… You are growing _powerful_, Cornelius…_) He shook his head to clear it of the various images and concentrated on the information that he had gained. It had already slipped from his mind though, like water through his grasping fingers, leaving only a faint impression of its passing. He scrambled for the memories of the past few minutes, but realized, with a sick feeling bubbling in his stomach, they hadn't been stored where they should've been, but instead were lost in the swirling sea of his mind.

Merlin closed his eyes, battling his rising fear. He obviously couldn't rely on his memory, but his language skills were working fine and his instincts seemed to be serving him well. Perhaps he could muddle through his interactions with others until he could locate a text detailing a solution for his faulty memory.

The most pressing issue, of course, was whether he should confide his troubles in this man. Opening his eyes slightly, he analyzed the oblivious physician as he ground a handful of seeds with a worn mortar and pestle. He seemed trustworthy enough, and a significant part of Merlin was urging him to spill his secrets to the man and beg for his help. However, a dark corner of his mind whispered of caution, of assassins and courtiers with hungry eyes and deceitful smiles. It was safer, Merlin decided, not to tell anyone of his troubles. He would avoid both betrayal and the unnecessary involvement of innocent bystanders by keeping his secrets close to his chest.

"Merlin?" The old man's voice, tinged with a hint of concern, broke into his thoughts. "Merlin, you look exhausted. Here," he bustled over to Merlin's bedside and placed supporting arms around his back. "Lie down. Rest. You'll feel more like yourself in the morning," he assured Merlin, brushing back a piece of unruly hair from Merlin's forehead and tucking the blankets securely around him.

_Hopefully_, thought Merlin, as the soothing sounds of clinking jars and the man's half-familiar muttering lulled him to sleep, _I _will _feel more like myself in the morning. Whoever I am._


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to my lovely reviewers! Your support was what got this chapter written, even though I should be studying for finals and all.**

**I most certainly do not own Merlin.**

Chapter 2

Merlin woke with a start as the door banged open, and threw himself out of the bed wildly (_Sigan, doors don't stop magical assassins! You need… Too powerful by far, Cornelius. Watch your back._). He whirled around, the syllables for a shield already on his lips, only to be confronted by an unarmed, flummoxed knight carrying a burlap sack. Sheepishly, deducing from the knight's gaping mouth that this quick response was _very_ uncharacteristic of "Merlin", Merlin gingerly sat down on the bed and nervously laughed.

After a beat of uncomfortable silence, the blond knight cleared his throat. "Well, I must commend you on your prompt reactions, Merlin," he drawled, convincingly nonchalant, but Merlin noted the slight awkward undertone. He wondered, briefly, how he knew this particular knight so well that his subtle inflections were imprinted onto Merlin's subconscious.

"If only you could be this… _punctual_ for everything," the knight continued derisively, hefting the burlap bag in his hand. "Since, you see, you haven't been attending your duties lately," the man upended the bag over the bed and a pile of armor rained down next to Merlin with a clamor of metal. "My armor's become dull; polish it for me."

Although Merlin faintly felt that this state of affairs was _normal_, a dark and vicious anger twisted in his gut. He was no man's servant! Although they had debased him, torn him down to his very soul, he was power incarnate. How could he not be, when magic hummed through his veins?

"I'm not your manservant!" The denial burst out of him, fueled by fleeting memories of scorn and distain and mortal men sneering at him, like their nobility, inherited, was better than his, carved painstakingly from bedrock.

The knight visibly flinched backwards, as if physically struck. Panic flooded Merlin's mind, washing the fragments of memory back into oblivion. That was idiotic, Merlin thought fearfully, a part of him already cataloguing the exits. Obviously that outburst was uncharacteristic; the man would suspect, question, interrogate….

"Well," the knight said, regaining his composure. "You _are_ my manservant again, actually, since I've declared it so while you were lazing about in bed. Your only competition was, well, _unsatisfactory_ in _many_ aspects." His eyes brightened and his mouth quirked upward, subtly inviting Merlin to share in the joke.

The brief relief that Merlin felt at the easy acceptance of his outburst was quickly drowned by another wave of hot rage. How _dare_ this _brat_ assert such casual superiority over him? Magic rose in his throat, hot and churning with anger. However, another thread of emotion ran under the blind rage, permeating it with _calm peace amusement_ because this was normal and familiar, the comfortable heckling of a friend. Gradually, the magic subsided and Merlin swallowed thickly, fighting down another surge of irritation at the sight of the man's disgustingly bemused expression. The knight should be _pleading_ with Merlin for mercy for his insolence…

"Who do you think you are?" The cold, biting question left Merlin's lips before he could catch it and he internally winced as the knight's expression closed off and turned thunderous.

"Who _I_ am?" the blond's voice was frigid, but a layer of hurt and confusion surged under the icy distain. "I'm the prince of Camelot, _Mer_lin. I allow you liberties, but you _forget your place._" He raised one hand, trembling with rage, and Merlin flinched away from him instinctually, remembering both casual slaps and the purposeful pummeling of armored hands. At Merlin's recoil, the prince froze, a measure of the cold anger draining from his bearing, leaving only an aching confusion. He lowered his hand slowly, and swallowed thickly, a flash of some unnamable emotion flitting briefly across his features. He stared searchingly at Merlin for a moment more and then abruptly spun on his heel.

"Just polish my armor, Merlin," he threw out over his shoulder, opening the door and hurriedly exiting the workroom.

Merlin blinked, stunned by the quick succession of events. He was only barely beginning to recover from the fear that had gripped his heart when the prince (_Do you know who I am?... Bow to your _prince,_ Sigan_), the _prince of Camelot_, had taken offense at his outburst, and suddenly he was alone again, without any punishment besides a perfunctory command to polish armor.

That was a simple enough task to complete. Merlin rose to his feet and pivoted towards the bed, his hand already outstretched and the harsh syllables of the language of the Old Religion falling from his lips. His eyes flashed _gold black and then he was falling…._

_He watched as his wife's corpse was consumed in the pyre and he could hear one of the lords' sniveling servants behind him. "They say it's foul play," the man whispered in a grating, nasal voice. "A warning to Lord Sigan, to watch his steps around the king." He gritted his teeth and the magic churned…_

_He was dancing with Will through the trees. "Watch, Will," he cried, and spread his arms wide, golden butterflies forming on his fingertips. With one firm flap of his arms, the butterflies burst into motion, creating a funnel of delicate, metallic bodies as he laughed with joy, eyes burning as gold as his creations…_

He gasped for air, vaguely noting that he was curled on the floor, the armor glinting tantalizing on the bed above him…

_He stared at his mother in horror, because she must know that Camelot is where the sorcerers burn, and he could no more give up his magic than he could stop breathing. The chairs rattled ominously, and as the table quivered, he faintly thought that this proved his point exactly…_

He shook his head, bracing one arm on the stone and heaving his throbbing body towards the bed. He must have crumpled to the floor…

_The magic poured out of his hands, but his mother's panicked screams were tapering off and he hadn't even cleared the wreckage yet. The fire leapt higher and a scream of frustration, pain, rage, _fear, _tore itself out of his throat as his house burned. But this was nothing compared to when he later found her charred body in the ashes of their possessions…_

His breath came in shuddering gasps, and with an effort, he stumbled to his feet, unsteady and befuddled. The room swam in his vision and a consuming need to _run escape breathe _gripped him. It felt too _hot confining _within the stone walls. He staggered to the door and out into the corridors, unaware of his surroundings and the curious faces of the people who passed him. The world cracked and shattered around him, memories fusing with perceptions and blurring together into a stream of incomprehensible images.

Eventually, he stumbled out into the sunshine. The battlements of the castle were tinged with orange from the afternoon sun, but he could see that the market was still bustling with people. Instinctually, he turned from the milling people and wandered towards the forest. As he came to the edge of the trees, he could feel the constant panic of the last few days slide off of his shoulders. Under the shadows of overhanging branches, it didn't particularly matter who he was, as there was no one here that he had to fool.

He didn't know how long he meandered through the forest, simply allowing his thoughts to settle and his vision to stop spinning. As the sky faded to a deep red, he sunk down under an enormous oak in the center of a clearing to rest his feet and reflect on his situation.

Obviously, he decided, this state of affairs could not continue. There was a fundamental issue with his mind and his magic, and it wasn't improving. He could not interact instinctually with others, as it seemed that he often had several widely varying impulses simultaneously, and the use of his magic only compounded the problem. Ideally, he would search through a library for information relating to this strange affliction, but he would have to interact with people to gain access to it. He simply would have to muddle through, he supposed, and attempt to repair his mind on his own.

He settled against the tree and closed his eyes, hoping that he wasn't attacked or discovered while he was examining his mind. Going back to the castle was out of the question, as he would inevitably be interrupted and questioned about his continuing abnormal behavior.

With a steadying breath, he called up his memories and plunged into the swirling tempest of his mind, praying that this half-cocked plan would actually succeed.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for the support and I hope you like this chapter. Lots of angsty angst.**

**I don't own Merlin.**

Chapter 3

Merlin awoke to the sound of birdsong and the deep ache of sitting in one place for far too long. Groaning as his cramped muscles protested, he hauled himself to his feet and blinked several times, reveling in the _solidity_ of the world.

It had worked, sort of. His mind had been carved up brutally, with random memories floating around without any connections. Merlin shuddered when he realized the damage Sigan _really_ could have caused. Luckily, Sigan hadn't made it past his memories to such vital things as the ability to talk or breathe. Still, the amount of reconstruction that Merlin had to do was staggering. Even with Sigan's understanding of mind arts, Merlin wasn't accustomed to submersing himself in his mind, much less repairing extensive damage.

Thus, his fixes were rudimentary, Merlin realized. To anchor the memories, he had just strung them along linearly, and that wasn't the most efficient way to access anything. His thoughts felt sluggish and unresponsive. However, he was just glad that Sigan's memories weren't tainting his anymore. He had sequestered them in a corner of his mind where they couldn't mingle freely with his own memories, which had been disorientating and utterly confusing.

It wasn't that he hated Sigan, Merlin thought. Sigan was… surprisingly _human_. He wasn't evil and his memories weren't dripping with malice and spite. Sigan, Merlin decided, was a wounded man, his reputation formed by the negative opinions of the court and the lies of his king. However, the abuses of his liege and the scars of his past didn't change the fact that Sigan, evil sorcerer or not, had attacked Merlin's home, and Merlin had no pity for a man who would raze Camelot and threaten Arthur for misplaced revenge.

Thus, he had locked Sigan's memories away, rejecting them and praying that they stayed there, forever locked away from his own. Understanding or not, Merlin didn't want Sigan's bitterness infesting his mind. The language skills he had acquired could have been useful as well as the fiendishly complex spells that Sigan knew, but Merlin felt uncomfortable taking _anything_ from Sigan.

Glancing at the sun, Merlin realized with a start that it was about noon. A sick feeling bubbled in his stomach as he realized that he'd been gone from Camelot for at least half a day. He had completely _bungled_ his interactions with Gaius and Arthur. Gods, the _look_ in Arthur's eyes. Their friendship was so… fragile, sometimes. They never said anything out loud, never had to, so the little things meant so much more. His vicious refusal of Arthur's silent apology… the guilt rose in his throat.

Pushing his worry about Gaius' and Arthur's reactions to the back of his mind, Merlin trudged through the woods for half an hour until the trees ended and he could see Camelot's walls rising toward the sky.

Relived, he made his way to Camelot's main gates, but stopped dead when a thought hit him. How had he known which way Camelot was? It burned brightly in his mind, a orienting point like north to a compass, and he had _never_ felt it like this before, viscerally. The city _sang_, a welcoming, soothing, familiar… _Sigan_, Merlin realized with a sense of dread. He had known that his mind repairs were an imperfect solution, but still, he had expected the leakage to be minor. Forcefully calming himself, he entered the city and made his way to the castle, ignoring the welcoming hum of the stone beneath his feet.

He passed the guards without incident and quickly climbed the stairs to Gaius' workroom. Cautiously, he opened the wooden door, hoping fiercely that Gaius was running an errand or collecting plants or…

"Merlin!" Gaius exclaimed, rushing to the cringing boy. "Where were you? Do you know how worried I've been about you?" Merlin gave him a sheepish smile, touched at Gaius' concern. "I hope you have a good reason for your little disappearing act, because Arthur is furious." Merlin swallowed, the guilt and a healthy dose of fear mixing in the pit of his stomach.

"I was collecting plants for you, Gaius," Merlin said, the lie falling effortlessly from his lips. "You said that you needed feverfew and comfrey." Gaius nodded, he had mentioned that several days before, but his faint confusion that absent-minded Merlin had remembered showed in his eyes. "So I went into the forest, and lost track of time. Darkness fell and I decided to sleep instead of getting lost in the woods at night. I woke up a little while ago and came back to the castle."

"I'm glad you came out of your adventures unscathed, Merlin," Gaius said, running his eyes critically over Merlin's body to check for any wounds that would disprove that statement. "But where's my feverfew and comfrey?"

While Merlin would usually freeze and stutter out a string of nonsense, he found himself able to remain composed and calm. "Heh, I dropped my collections when I tripped over a root in the dark and forgot all about my original purpose. Sorry," he said sheepishly.

Gaius cocked one amused eyebrow at him, evidently believing his story. Merlin had to forcibly hold in a sigh of relief. He was usually terrible at lying.

"Well, however well-meaning your disappearance, Arthur is the one you have to beg forgiveness from," Gaius reminded him, and Merlin's stomach sank. Gaius continued, taking a perverse pleasure in his pain, Merlin was sure. "He was infuriated when I told him that you weren't here. He spit out something about being the prince, gathered his armor, and stomped to the training grounds to spar with his knights." Gaius chuckled. "The sounds of him banging away at their armor could be heard from up here. You should go find him and explain your absence."

Merlin blanched. The last thing he wanted was to face an angry and hurt Arthur with a sword. Arthur could be murderous without a weapon; with one, he was downright deadly. But, Gaius' advice was sound. If he didn't report to Arthur now, Arthur would definitely throw him in the stocks for _hours_ when he discovered that Merlin had been hiding from him.

With a sense of doom, Merlin trooped to the training field, the clang of metal growing steadily louder as he approached his demise. He hadn't even polished Arthur's armor, since his magic had simply devastated his mind instead of doing anything _useful_. Merlin felt a slight urge to turn back and wait for the pompous brat to debase himself _begging_ for Merlin's forgiveness, but recognized it instantly as Sigan's influence.

From what little Merlin had gathered when he had shunted Sigan's memories to the back of his mind, he had determined that _Lord_ Cornelius Sigan hadn't been born noble. His construction of Camelot had netted him a title and land, but the court had mocked him for his peasant background. Merlin _understood_, as he actually was a peasant servant and the nobles were certainly not respectful to him. However, Sigan's instinct to lash out at anything that threatened his status did nothing to help Merlin, who was most definitely not a nobleman. Hopefully, Merlin would be able to properly apologize to Arthur and shoulder his punishment without Sigan's pride getting in the way.

He wasn't too optimistic about this going well, though, especially when Arthur came into view.

Merlin knew Arthur, inside and out. It was a skill developed in defense, since not knowing Arthur meant that Merlin wouldn't know when just talking to Arthur would cause him to be deluged by chores or when Arthur was about to go harrying off on another ill-considered quest. Arthur's current emotional state hovered somewhere between "furious" and "homicidal," judging by the ferocity of his sparring. Fighting was how Arthur bled out tension, so if half a day of sparring still left him spitting in anger, Merlin knew that it was going to get worse if he allowed Arthur to stew in his negative emotions.

Despair settling on his shoulders like an unwelcome blanket, Merlin trudged to the edge of the training field and waited with dread for Arthur to notice him.

It didn't take long. Merlin sometimes suspected that, like he was hyperaware of Arthur's presence, Arthur was hyperaware of his. In this case, this was not a good thing.

Arthur quickly disarmed his opponent, who was panting with exhaustion, and then sauntered over to Merlin, a fake-cheerful smile plastered on his face. His eyes, Merlin noticed, danced with confusion and wounded anger.

"Merlin!" he cried, and Merlin tried and failed to smile at him. "Finally, you grace us with your presence."

"Arthur, sorry about that; I went into the forest and –"

Arthur lost his smile, and his face turned hard. "That's _Prince_ Arthur to you."

Merlin could do nothing but stare at him, stunned and internally reeling. This was entirely unexpected. He expected yelling and chores, but he did not expect this cold version of his friend. Sigan's memories whispered of a prince that had kneeled in the face of his power and called softly for reverence.

Arthur's cold gaze swept over Merlin. "Go get into armor. You're sparring with me today."

Merlin's feet took him automatically toward the armory, but his mind was still trying to process this string of events. Arthur had been hurt by Merlin's brusque behavior, but Merlin didn't think that his friend could possibly be that frigid towards him. He felt disoriented, felt his grasp on the world starting to slip. One little jolt, and already his slight fixes were beginning to fail.

He began to mechanically don his armor, ignoring the wisps of smoky memory of a young, black-haired man determined to wield the sword better than any pampered nobleman. As he examined the armory's swords, he weakly attempted to push Sigan's memories back into their proper place, but the threads of Sigan's influence leaked into his mind, undeterred by his efforts.

Something about Arthur's few sentences had rocked his control to this extent, Merlin hazily thought, and he wondered what it could be. Was Arthur really such a cornerstone of his life that a change in their relationship would upset Merlin's painstaking organization? He didn't know, and as he drew closer to the field again, it became more and more difficult to think.

Arthur said something as Merlin reached the training ground and the knights jeered at him, but Merlin didn't notice. He crossed the field to a point opposite Arthur and fell into a _comfortable familiar pose that his teacher had drilled into him so fervently that he was surprised he didn't sleep like this_.

Arthur looked vaguely taken-aback at Merlin's competent stance, but obviously brushed it off as a fluke. Without warning, he rushed at Merlin, sword raised to clip Merlin's helmet with a painful clang.

But Merlin wasn't there anymore, because he _wove around the pale boy who hadn't known hardship and would therefore lose every time, because this was a game for him, not a serious validation of his right to carry this beautiful sword._

Arthur thrust and Merlin _parried the hopeless blow which couldn't have cleaved a caterpillar_ and followed with a _lunge that the boy barely blocked and which caused him to stumble back a few steps._ Arthur's mouth opened and closed, his eyes wide with surprise, and so Merlin _pushed the offensive against the burly man that would fall like all of the others under his sword._ A thread of fear wove its way into Arthur's stance as Merlin swung _and knew that one more blow would end it all, because the king had been so stupid as to accept a duel to the death. His body sang with elation as the king lost his footing. Twyla would be avenged; the king's blood would blot out the sight of his wife's dead, sightless eyes. It was so close, one more stab, and then _Arthur would be dead.

With a gasp, Merlin twisted the sword to fall harmlessly on the grass. Arthur stared at him from the ground where he kneeled in front of Merlin, betrayal and confusion and _fear_ flitting across his features. The field was deathly silent and the bile rose in Merlin's throat.

He had been so close, _so close_, to killing Arthur, killing his master, his friend, his destiny. He looked down at Arthur, guilt flooding his mind as he remembered Sigan's whispers _he would kneel at your feet_ and felt the sword in his hand _dripping with the blood of the knight who intervened._

In that moment, he hated himself and Sigan in equal measure, and the brief thought of ripping out his own heart entered his mind, because that would hurt less than the soul-deep terror that resided in Arthur's eyes. Without a word, he dropped the sword and ran.

The cloying silence followed him to the castle.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to my reviewers and sorry that this was a little late. Your support keeps me going on this story! Sorry for the lack of Merlin/Arthur interaction so far; I promise that they'll actually start **_**talking **_**to each other at some point. Just… not right now.**

**I don't own Merlin. Obviously. The plot would be a **_**whole**_** lot stranger if I did.**

Chapter 4

Merlin panted as he sprinted to his room, panic and horror flooding his mind and momentarily driving out Sigan's influence. He had to get away from Camelot, and quickly. While his mind was tainted by Sigan's memories, he was a danger to his friends, to _Arthur_. He had lost control too easily. By the gods, it was a minor snub, and he had almost drove that sword…. He recoiled from that sickening thought and his morbid imaginings of what could have been.

He felt so utterly helpless. It had become almost routine to fight against an external enemy to save Arthur. However powerful, they at least were corporeal, and their defeat was rather straightforward with the proper knowledge. Sigan, though, seemed to walk in Merlin's shadow, a frail, powerless thing until Merlin's control slipped for just a moment. It was vigilance against himself, and it frightened him deeply.

He had to get away, and quickly. Grabbing a rucksack from under his bed, he threw his flint and tinder, knife, waterskin, and blanket into it. He briefly entertained the idea of nicking some food from the kitchens, but the panic was steadily rising and he decided to simply forage for food on the road. He couldn't afford to waste any time, and Gaius' instruction meant that he would recognize at least a few plants that were good to eat.

He couldn't let anyone see him, talk to him, detain him, because he knew with a soul-deep dread that interactions with him could lead to the whistle of a sword as it bit through the air, diving for his friend. He couldn't say goodbye to Gaius or give Gwen one last smile. Perhaps he would be able to return to the castle someday, if he ever drove out the taint of Sigan from his mind, but he pushed these hopeful thoughts away. He had to concentrate on the present, because, currently, he had no idea what the future would bring.

Getting out of the castle was remarkably easy. Merlin wondered if Arthur was still kneeling there, expressing the vicious shock that was clawing at Merlin's stomach. Perhaps he was pacing in his room, his anger building steadily higher without a convenient manservant on which to release his frustrations. Incongruous laughter bubbled in Merlin's throat, but he pursed his lips together to keep it from escaping.

At least Arthur hadn't told Uther about this fiasco yet. If he had, the grounds would be crawling with guards to escort him to his execution. Merlin hadn't landed that final blow, but there were enough military-type witnesses who would have recognized the intent to kill that had surely bled from his pores. There hadn't been a jot of playfulness in his duel with Arthur, and Merlin purposely didn't question how he could expertly see emotion in a wordless fight. The answer was obvious and he didn't have the time to worry about Sigan's influence on his thoughts.

The sharp panic that had kept his thoughts clear and separate was fading now, though, and the hazy darkness was dancing at the edges of his vision. A twisting, wrenching fear spread through his body, causing him to shiver briefly. Could he even keep Sigan's memories suppressed long enough to get away from Camelot?

He had begun to sympathize with the man. It was hard not to, not when he could feel the utter grief and despair, the burning anger, the stung pride. He understood Sigan, just from the few memories that had slipped through his defenses.

Now he hated the sorcerer with a burning, terrible passion, because he had caused Arthur to look at him with those _eyes_, with fear that never should have been directed at Merlin. Sigan's attack on Camelot was nothing compared to this, the threatening of Merlin's prince and the assault on Merlin and Arthur's fragile bond.

As Merlin neared the marketplace, he could feel the spindly coils of Sigan's influence twisting further through his thoughts. He hurried his pace, breaking into a run, weaving through throngs of people. Never the most graceful of people, his rush to the main gates left a trail of chaos in his wake. Women staggered back from him, tripping over baskets of produce as shopkeepers yelled angrily at his quickly retreating back.

He dodged around buildings mindlessly, his own knowledge of the city blending with the warm hum of Camelot beneath his feet. Within minutes, he had arrived at the gates, slightly breathless. He surveyed his potential exit from Camelot and cursed under his breath, a frustrated habit that he had picked up from Gaius, whose language tended to be colorful whenever he was dealing with a particularly difficult injury.

He had forgotten about the guards! Obviously, they wouldn't stop him from leaving the city, but they would remember that he had left and would inform Arthur, who would go haring after Merlin, and then Sigan would twist through his mind and he would spew hurtful words and there would be blood on the sword, red blood, and screams…. Merlin cut off his panicked thoughts with an effort. He needed to be clearheaded. He had to leave, _now_, but not by the main gates.

His eyes darted about, searching for an idea. As he racked his brains for a plan, he carefully backed away from the gate to avoid being seen by anyone who would recognize him. He settled behind some crates, his back to the stone wall that surrounded the perimeter of Camelot.

What he needed, in the great tradition of his and Arthur's plans, was a distraction. Sadly, it was still light out, so a mere noise wouldn't cause the guards to leave their post to investigate. It was a cool autumn day, midway between noon and sunset, and the lazy traffic was too sparse for him to blend it with, unless….

His eyes alighted on a wagon by the side of the street. An elderly farmer, his skin wrinkled and tanned, was meticulously checking the tack of his two feeble oxen. A pile of straw occupied the back half of the wagon, and Merlin realized, his eyes scanning the area, that if he ran quickly, he could conceal himself in the hay without anyone the wiser. A feeling of triumph rose in him. Escape was within his reach.

However, as he primed himself to sprint to the farmer's wagon, the steady hum of Camelot beneath his feet suddenly shifted to a staccato beat. _Agitation_ thrummed through the city, if Merlin could apply human terms to a sentient city's feelings. Within his mind, Sigan's influence became much sharper, as if responding to the anxiety in Camelot's vibrations. Merlin shook his head, once, twice, and then began to move.

His motion was arrested by the tendril of stone that had wrapped around his foot, however. For a moment, he stared down at the living rock, frozen in disbelief. Of all possible obstacles to him leaving the city, the last one he would ever expect was the city herself.

His disbelief quickly morphed into fear, as he realized that he was trapped. His primal instincts recognized that his captor was impossibly powerful and dangerous in its supremacy, and he began to struggle frantically, mindlessly.

A small corner of his mind registered that the city's humming had changed to a soothing, gentle rhythm, as if attempting to calm Merlin. However, the greater part of his mind was awash with terror, especially as his other foot, which was flush against the wall, began to be _sucked into it_.

He couldn't scream, his need to protect others, like the guards who would surely come running and be attacked, still intact through the waves of panic that assaulted him. As he felt his calf sink into the cold stone of the wall, he frantically recalled a spell for breaking rocks that was designed for extricating people from rockslides. He laid one hand flat on the stone and murmured: "Ábrecan carr."

Or, at least, he tried. As he opened his mouth and his eyes bled to a gold-black, Sigan's memories wrenched violently at his consciousness. Pain flooded his mind as their fear mingled, Merlin's for his life and Sigan's for the city that he cared for like a child. As Merlin's precarious mental structure broke down, he could feel the familiar blackness of unconsciousness engulfing him, like the stone that had already crept past his knee.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks to my reviewers and sorry that this was very late. Hopefully the length kinda makes up for it? I hope you like the Merlin/Arthur interaction in this chapter and that you like the direction this is going. I love all the support I'm getting, so thanks all so much!**

**I don't own Merlin.**

Chapter 5

He woke, but not with the normal blinking of eyes and stretching of cramped muscles. He felt oddly disconnected, and realized with a start that he couldn't feel his hands or feet or legs or arms. The fear rose, but without the familiar quickening heartbeat or shallow breaths.

He hadn't opened his eyes, but then, he wasn't quite sure if he had any. The world around him was pitch black, not the flickering darkness of closed eyelids, but simply the complete absence of light. He couldn't hear, feel, see anything. Panic choked him.

He didn't know how long he floated, immersed in a sea of nothingness. Eventually, threads of whispers began to ghost by him, a susurration like the soft flutter of birds' wings. He strained to listen, grasping frantically for proof that he wasn't alone in this all-consuming darkness. As the whispers increased in volume, he realized with an unpleasant jolt that they were _human_ voices, murmuring in a language he half-understood. He tried to cry out to them, but he had no mouth or lungs. _Where am I?_ The question reverberated in his mind, unexpressed.

Shards of memories gradually returned, and he recalled those last frantic moments, his body sinking into the stone of the city walls as his escape from Camelot was within tantalizing reach. He must be trapped within the wall, Merlin eventually concluded reluctantly. It was a strange position to be in, but he had learned, through long experience with magic and the troubles that Arthur seemed to find, to never declare anything as impossible. The panic and confusion (_where's my body, why can't I move, am I still breathing_) he pushed firmly away.

Instead, he continued to try to call out to the ghostly voices that murmured softly around him. He hoped in the faint possibility that they would hear him and could help him in some arcane way. However, he also prayed that they couldn't hear and were simply figments of his imagination, fevered dreams of company in this lonely wall, and not other people like him, trapped in stone.

_He begins to chant, his hands dripping with blood, and he tried to ignore the terrified faces –_

With a gasp, Merlin pushed the intruding memory back. It was too much to hope for, he supposed, that Sigan's memories would stop overtaking his mind now that they couldn't possibly do harm to other people. Perhaps it was lucky that he was trapped in here, Merlin thought, uncharacteristically sardonic. Sigan was now firmly contained, in crystal and in stone. He realized that he was being uncharitable to the wounded and persecuted man that he had begun to understand and that his anger at the continuing lack of equilibrium between Sigan's memories and his own was irrational, but he was tired and afraid and terribly confused. It felt so good to have a small tantrum where there was no chance that someone could see him.

Eventually, Merlin's emotions calmed and his rationality asserted itself. However much harm Sigan's memories could do when they took over, staying in a _wall_ for the rest of his life was simply not an option. He had to continue to try to escape _this _situation now.

Merlin resumed his efforts with communicating with the voices. No matter how much he tried, though, he remained voiceless and the whisperers failed to respond. Never a patient person, he reached for his magic, only to feel it slip between his fingers like water. After a few more tries, he gave it up, and racked his mind for a solution. There wasn't going to be help from anyone; the whisperers couldn't hear him, and the last place that Gaius would search would be in the walls of Camelot. His magic was out of reach, and Sigan was still in his mind, his memories twisting through his thoughts…

He froze as it hit him. It was a stupid, reckless, utterly brainless plan, with only a slight chance of working, but then, there wasn't much else he could do. Sigan obviously knew something about the voices, if Merlin had judged the snippet of memory he had seen correctly. If Sigan's memories once again overtook Merlin's own, well, hadn't he noted that there was nothing Sigan could do if he was trapped within stone?

Revolted by the idea of _consciously accessing _Sigan's memories, Merlin tried to call out to the voices again and reached for his magic a few more times. Eventually, he ceased all of his efforts and simply just floated in the darkness, trying to work up that foolhardy courage of his. Gradually, his misgivings subsided in the wake of his increasing determination. He couldn't protect Arthur from in here, and so nothing would stop him from emerging back into the crisp air and warm sunlight. His fear and feelings of impotence slipped away and he reveled in this familiar situation, his mind and innovation against an "insurmountable" obstacle. Pushing all other thoughts aside, he wondered about the voices again, and felt the memory rise and swallow him…

_He stood in the center of a plain that stretched for leagues on every side. The ground was scoured clean of plant and soil, and his shoes clicked on the exposed bedrock as he slowly strode towards the exact center of the barren land._

_He had chosen this location because it was already powerful. The magic thrummed under his feet, humming in tune with his own power. He breathed in the cool spring air, pride welling up in him. This city would be a place where destinies converged, he knew. Magic would infuse the stone, pulling it up into tall spires and imposing battlements, and the city would _sing_ with life. His creation would shape history; the echoes of his actions would be felt for generations. He would never truly die, not with this city as an everlasting monument._

_It was a goal worth sacrificing much for, and in his opinion, the lives of these criminal scum were a small price to pay for it. He studiously ignored the screams from the five cages that marked out the vertices of a giant pentagram. _He understood now, too well, and tried to pull away… _They were murderers and thieves and rapists, he knew, and deserved to die. They should be grateful that their deaths served a higher purpose, unlike his mother, burning as the bandits fled with their loot… He forcefully suppressed those memories and the familiar guilt that welled in his throat._

_It was more difficult to force the emotion away as he stepped into the center of the pentagram and met the eyes of the man bound to the slab of stone that Sigan had erected just this morning._ No, no, he did not want to see!_ The man's summer-sky blue eyes were filled with a numbing, helpless terror, _he tried to push the memory away, because he knew, _and Sigan felt pity and understanding and guilt bubble in his stomach. A criminal, but a man, just a man… He looked away, collected himself, _he knew what was going to happen, _and told himself that it was necessary. Eyes still averted, he withdrew a long knife from the folds of his clothing, _no, he screamed, but had no voice, _and slit the man's throat in one brutal slash._

_The blood spurted onto him and the stone. Instantly, Sigan could feel the magic in the bedrock begin to stir and become agitated. The power flowed out along pre-drawn lines towards the cages. The screams had increased in volume, he noted faintly as he withdrew into his mind. Drawing his magic about him like a cloak, he steeled him and _pushed _outward and suddenly he wasn't in his body, but flying, higher and higher…_

Merlin felt sick, vaguely nauseous, and he was sure, if he was in his body, he would be trembling uncontrollably. The whispers ghosted by him, and he wanted to rage and apologize and scream because he had held that knife and felt the magic thrumming through his veins and he had killed them, impotent to halt their destruction. It was a beautiful city, he acknowledged, but it was blood-stained and held rot within its walls. He felt disgust welling up in him, and without a thought, he _tore_ himself away from the voices, still feeling the _up, up, up_ of Sigan's soul.

He burst out into the sunshine, the light surprising him violently and causing him almost to jump back into the wall. He laughed at his clumsiness, a bright, vibrant, relieved sound. Out in the brightness of day, his recent experiences and Sigan's dark memory all seemed like a simple nightmare. He turned around to insure that the wall was nice and solid, unlikely to swallow him at the most inopportune moment, reaching out his hand to touch the stone. It passed right through.

He froze, laughter dying on his lips. Slowly, he retracted his hand, noting hazily that he could see the dirty cobblestones through his skin. He wasn't corporeal, he realized. His body was still in the wall, but he was… out here, in sunny Camelot.

How could he get his body out of the stone? He reached for his magic, but, like before, it slipped frustratingly away. He felt his brief moment of triumph slipping away, his feelings of helplessness pervading his body and dragging it downward, into the ground.

With an effort, Merlin rose so that his ghostly feet hung slightly above the ground. He couldn't interact with anything physical, obviously, but perhaps…. An idea came to him suddenly, and Merlin felt a jolt of hope. Could Gaius perhaps see him and extract his body with magic? It was worth a try, he decided. Besides, he was wondering how long he had floated inside the stone and what had happened in his absence.

Bobbing in the air, still unfamiliar with this strange mode of travel, Merlin clumsily joined the stream of midday traffic flowing into the bustling market. No one noticed him, not even the tipsy drunkard that had stumbled through Merlin as he staggered down the street, leaving Merlin staring at his incorporeal stomach with an expression of incredulity and faint horror.

The entire experience was uncomfortably surreal, and Merlin hurriedly extricated himself from the throngs of people as soon as possible. He was accustomed to being ignored and overlooked, but this invisibility was much more severe and disturbing.

As he floated up the path, towards the castle, a familiar face passed him, going the opposite way. "Gwen," he cried, happiness _bursting_ through his body.

But no sound immerged from his mind, and she passed by him without a flinch. Despondent, Merlin turned to watch her beautiful black hair retreat with the crowd. He had thought that, maybe…. Unbidden, doubts began to bubble up in his mind. If Gwen couldn't see him, if he couldn't speak… perhaps his visit to Gaius would be a fool's errand.

Nevertheless, he thought, as he laboriously began his journey to the castle again, he had to try. The feeling of being hedged in, having only one opinion, was becoming frighteningly familiar. However, there was a small chance that Gaius could see him, Merlin realized. Gaius had magic, and perhaps that was what was needed for him to be able to interact with people. Heartened by this thought, his movements picked up speed, and he soon found himself flying up the familiar stairs to Gaius' workroom. Without pausing, he flew through the wooden door.

He stopped dead, stunned by what he saw. _Arthur, Arthur Pendragon_, was sitting at Gaius' table in Merlin's habitual spot. Merlin resisted the childish urge to push Arthur off of his chair, knowing that it would be a pointless action. Besides, once he looked closely at Arthur, he could see _that_ expression on his face, the one that heralded hours of frantic pacing interspersed with bouts of sulking and mood swings that would be felt by any servants in the vicinity. It was infrequent, but often appeared when Arthur felt particularly impotent, a state that he could simply not tolerate. Merlin wondered what had gotten Arthur so agitated and hoped that it was something that he could fix without a body.

Gaius was looking even more worried than Arthur was, Merlin noticed with horror. Something must be utterly _wrong_ in the kingdom for this level of anxiety. Gaius' hair hung limp about his face and he moved with all of his years weighing down on his shoulders. He was grinding up something with a mortar and pestle, but his movements weren't the professional, smooth twists of the wrist that Merlin was used to seeing. Instead, his hands were slow, jerky, as if his mind was far away. The room was pervaded by a stifling silence that seemed terribly out-of-place in Gaius' usually comfortable workroom.

Arthur was the first to break the oppressive silence. "Still no sign?" he asked wearily, running one hand over his face and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"No," Gaius replied after a moment. "He hasn't…. I don't know where he is."

"It's been a week already!" Arthur exclaimed. "Where could he have gone?"

Merlin wondered if they were discussing him, but dismissed the idea. Both of them looked like they were contemplating the apocalypse, which he was fairly sure was not synonymous with "absence-of-Merlin." Perhaps Uther was missing, or some foreign dignitary had decided that poison was a good way to ensure the success of peaceful negotiations. And, he thought, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, it had been at least a _week _since he had tried to leave Camelot. He hoped that he would know if his body had died, but disconnected from the physical world like he was, he had no way to be sure.

"I don't know!" Gaius' sharp reply shocked Merlin from his thoughts. "I've searched everywhere that the boy usually frequents, but I haven't found a sign of him." He paused, staring searchingly at Arthur. "You said that he was acting strangely before he left, but was there something that you didn't dare tell Uther? I myself noticed that he was absentminded, his mannerisms slightly… off. He stayed out in the forest for an entire night before he left, did you know?" Merlin started, surprised that his first suspicions were correct. Were these two haggard men really that affected by his absence?

Arthur shook his head at Gaius' question. "I didn't. I noticed he was gone, and my armor still unpolished, _obviously_. However," his expression became chagrinned, "I didn't investigate. Merlin… he had been uncharacteristically _angry_ at me that day." He shook his head again, a raw, wounded, bemusement on his face that made Merlin's heart clench. "He had a right to be angry at me," Arthur admitted, a wry, deprecating smile on his face, and Merlin realized that if Arthur could see him, he wouldn't be hearing this. Emotion was painted on Arthur's face in broad, vibrant strokes, and Merlin suspected that Arthur had forgotten that Gaius was even there. Arthur was guilty and confused and _hurting_, and it was all Merlin's fault. He reached out instinctively, and his hand passed through Arthur's clenched fist.

Arthur continued to speak to a sympathetic Gaius, detailing Merlin's strange conversation with him, but Merlin didn't hear a word, his eyes fixed on the ghostly hand surrounding Arthur's solid one of flesh and blood. He couldn't touch, couldn't comfort. Arthur was sitting there, confused, anguished, looking like Merlin _had_ driven the sword into his heart on that training ground, and Merlin couldn't reassure him that it was all Merlin's fault. It was Merlin's hubris (_That pride will be your downfall, Sigan_), believing that he could defeat, without a price, the man whose blood-spattered hand had raised the walls of this city. (_You must pay with blood or soul, Cornelius._)

With a cry, Merlin pushed away Sigan's memories and pulled back his hand from Arthur's. Wildly, he searched the faces of both men in the room, but neither had noticed him. "Look at me!" he screamed, but the two of them didn't turn their heads and the anxiety and stress remained on their exhausted faces.

The hopelessness and depression welled up in Merlin, strong and burning, and he felt the negative emotions weighting him down. He didn't fight it, but let them drag him lower and lower, through the floor, obscuring the painful sight from view.

He sank into the bowels of the castle, unmoving, letting the darkness swallow him. He had always fought tooth and nail, even against impossible odds, to save Arthur, to preserve the kingdom, but what could he do when the problem was himself? When corporeal, he almost kills Arthur, and when incorporeal, he carves deep furrows into Arthur's brow. He drifted lower, through the dungeons, lost in a haze of self-pity and recrimination.

He passed in and out of a cross-section of tunnels, some vaguely recognizable, but most unfamiliar. He eventually floated into a gigantic cavern, and he spied the Great Dragon perched on an outcropping, staring at the stone ceiling as if he could force the stars to shine through rock by the power of will alone. Merlin drifted through the dragon's field of view and watched with disappointment as the magnificent creature's eyes failed to see him.

Eventually, the Great Dragon disappeared from view as Merlin sank into another system of tunnels. These were less well-kept than the dungeons above, and Merlin noticed the creeping mold and the scurrying rats. A part of his mind impassively noted the odd fact that he seemed to be able to see in the dark while separated from his body, and Sigan's memories whispered of past experiences and theories written in innumerable books.

All of these tunnels were foreign to Merlin, so he was shocked out of his musings when he entered a _painfully_ familiar room. The treasure was still there, the gold glittering in the faint, flickering light of the crystal heart clutched in the stone hands of the tomb's guardian. The trap was in the same place that Merlin had remembered, but reset, he realized.

However, the most impressive, unsettling detail of the room wasn't the piles of metal cruelly glinting in the unnatural light or the constant drip of water down the walls, but the man sitting imperturbably above the crystalline heart.

"Hello," Cornelius Sigan said impassively. "It's a pleasure to see you again," his mouth twisted into a cold, unfeeling grin, "Merlin."


End file.
